


like blood in a still pool

by Lycoris_03



Series: stranger, mother [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arya Plays the Game, BAMF Arya Stark, Braavos, Dothraki, Essos, F/M, M/M, Ned Stark Lives (a bit longer), Queen Arya, The Faceless Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2020-12-14 21:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 19,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21022724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycoris_03/pseuds/Lycoris_03
Summary: It takes some time, but Arya Stark learns to play the Game as well as any other man or woman in the Red Keep.orThe beginnings change, but it ends the same.





	1. promises and Promises

Arya is promised to Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm’s End on her twelfth name-day. She hates it.

Her father wouldn’t relent, despite her protests. King Robert wanted a Stark-Baratheon engagement. King Robert gets what he wants. (Like her father as Hand of the King, even after stupid Prince Joffrey tossed Sansa aside for the Tyrell whore.)

At the very least, her father tells her, she’ll be away from King’s Landing. For that she is glad, though it means she’ll be far from Father and Jon and the rest of her pack (_even Sansa_, a part of her says).

As always, she goes to Syrio. He _always _beats her soundly, _always_ reminds her to _see_, to be quicker, lighter on her feet. She lasts longer this time and hopes he can come with her to Storm’s End.

A few moons pass and she finds herself being shoved into a ridiculous gown. The king, Sansa says, will announce her betrothal to the court. If her sister is jealous that she gets a pretty lord before she does, Arya doesn’t see it.

She knows Prince Joffrey liked to have Sansa beaten and humiliated when Father wasn’t watching. She knows Sansa is glad to be beneath his notice, but part of her still longs to be a princess, a queen. Arya sees all this, just as Syrio taught her.

Sansa leaves, satisfied with her handiwork, and in a fit of childish anger Arya takes up a knife and tears off part of the gown.

_There_, she thinks, with no small amount of satisfaction. She makes sure her breeches are visible under the gown. She laughs at what she thinks her betrothed would say.

At the feast, Sansa is scandalized when she sees the ruined gown, but keeps her mouth shut. Just as well. She might be two-and-ten but sometimes Sansa is just so _stupid_ when it comes to dresses. When the king stands to announce her betrothal, she sees the Knight of Flowers grimace and Lord Renly to… well, look sad, almost.

When he takes her arm for a spin about the dance floor, she smiles at how freely her legs can move. And he’s not bad looking, even if it’s the wine that makes her think so. And she swears Ser Loras hates her.

King Robert, drunk already, claps his brother on the back and says he can have her as soon as she’s flowered. Arya bristles at the comment. She is not something to be _had_. Lord Renly snarls something unintelligible at his brother before turning back to her.

“You are welcome at Storm’s End anytime, my lady, even if you do not wish to wed so soon.”

She thanks him, tells him she’ll consider it, and agrees that this really is too soon. The relief on his face is all the answer she needs.

Later, she thinks Lord Renly might not be so bad. He might be ten years older than her but he has his own order of knights (his Rainbow Guard, he tells her, fondly) and one of them is a _woman_. The very thought of meeting the fabled Brienne of Tarth makes Arya giddy with excitement.

It passes, though, and she’s nearing her thirteenth name-day when Sansa’s betrothal to Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden is announced. Sansa, oddly, is _happy _about it, even though he’s a cripple and not a prince. The Reach _is _important, Arya allows, and Lord Willas is the heir.

At three-and-ten Arya’s been in King’s Landing long enough that she sees the game being played. She’s always wary of the Lannisters, especially their queen, and Littlefinger always gives her the chills. Lord Varys is somewhat of a friend to her though, and she follows his birds in the walls of the Keep. Sometimes she hears things – the Tyrells plotting to give their little queen a gentler king, or Littlefinger whispering in the ears of one of his red-haired whores. She tells Lord Varys these things, and he tells her what his birds whisper of Winterfell, or Lord Renly.

“My birds tell me Lord Renly is _involved_ with our dear Knight of Flowers,” Varys says, once. She hears but doesn’t reply.

The next time Ser Loras visits his sister, Arya makes a point to speak with him. She’s in her riding leathers and a tunic she stole from Theon before she left Winterfell. (She’s grown into it, surprisingly.)

He sneers at her and tries to walk away, but Arya ropes him into taking a walk with her in the gardens.

“I know why you hate me so,” she tells him, out of earshot of any little birds. “I might even encourage it, if I get my own horse.”

The knight is amused, and she can almost see why her betrothed had taken a liking to him.

A moon later, Arya gets a letter from Lord Renly with a promise of a dapple-grey stallion awaiting her in the Stormlands.

Within a sennight, Arya wakes to terrible stomach pains and blood on the sheets.


	2. stay hidden, little wolf

She knows there isn’t much of a way for her to hide it, but she has one of Varys’ birds take the sheets anyways, to burn.

She dresses quickly in dark breeches and dashes out of the Keep, finding her way to Chataya’s. The whorehouse owner is kind to her, despite being a whore, and supplies her with enough knowledge she’s confident she can keep it hidden.

Of course, two days later, Ser Jaime notices her grimaces and paleness as she walks past and Queen Cersei takes note hours later. By the time her moon’s blood is ended, even Lord Renly knows.

He invites her to Storm’s End (_not for the wedding, by the Seven_, he writes) and Sansa invites her to her wedding at Highgarden. Lord Varys tells her Bran had just come south of the Wall.

“When did he go north?”

He tells her Bran had gone when he woke after his fall, and convinced Lady Stark to let him go to the Wall with Jon Snow.

She sees the lines on her father’s face deepen when she tells him this, and knows the South is taking a toll on him. Father sits on the Iron Throne more than Robert does now, the King getting fatter and fathering more bastards while Father manages his kingdom. He had always put honor and duty before all else.

Still, he agrees to accompany her to Highgarden to give Sansa away, smiling some at the thought of seeing Mother and his sons.

She writes Renly that night, tell him she’ll visit once Sansa is married. His reply arrives two days later, telling her Ser Loras would escort her to Storm’s End after the wedding and to King’s Landing after her visit.

At Highgarden, she sees Sansa laugh in a conversation with Lord Willas and knows her sister will be happier here. The thought cheers her too.

She embraces her mother when she arrives and lets her fuss. Robb and Bran and even Rickon are taller than her now, and they tease her mercilessly. (Bran has this look in his eyes though, like someone who has seen too much.) Jon is in Winterfell, Mother says, and will hold it with Theon and the castellan until they return.

She escapes into the training yard the next morning, slipping into the Water Dancer’s stance easily. The motions are familiar, even when the sounds and smells are not. She’s partway through the exercise when she hears someone approach, and she spins with Needle poised to strike when she sees Ser Loras.

“What brings you here at such an early hour, my lady?” he asks, amusement clear on his face.

“Practicing my needlework, ser.”

He laughs and challenges her to spar. She’s used to Syrio’s Braavosi style so it takes some time for her to figure out the rhythm of the Westerosi style, but Loras is reigning in his blows so she has time to adjust. Once she has it, though, she has Loras on his arse in moments.

He hasn’t had Syrio’s instruction, but he’s still a formidable opponent. He’s experienced enough that he can still read some of her movements, and he stops holding back once she has him on his arse the second time. She’s dancing around him, the flat of Needle striking his body whenever she can, and his blunted blade crashes down around her (but never on her).

They fall into an easy rhythm, so much like a dance, and she finds herself grinning. They’d gathered an audience by then, her father among them, and their cheers and catcalls only spur her on. Moments later, his tourney sword is in the dirt and Needle is leveled at his neck. (She thinks she’s showing off for her father. He paid for her lessons with Syrio, anyways.)

“Draw your sword, ser,” she says, with a glint in her eyes, “I assure you I am quite used to live steel.”

He meets her challenge with his own sword. The clash of steel is like a song to her, the back and forth as each gain and lose ground in turn like ripples in a pond.

Suddenly, Loras sweeps her feet from under her and she finds herself squinting up at him with his sword at her throat. He’s laughing as he helps her up and she laughs along with him.

“Soon you’ll be able to best me any day,” he says with a smile. “How long have you had that toothpick?”

“It’s _Needle_,” Arya says, appalled, “_not _a toothpick. And Jon gave it to me before I left Winterfell.”

“Your bastard brother? Well you’re about to outgrow it. I know a good blacksmith on the Street of Steel in King’s Landing. We’ll get you a better sword. Longer and wider. If you’re going to be the Lady Baratheon, you best get used to spending Renly’s gold.”

The wedding is a joyous affair, and Arya goes out of her way to wear a gown for her sister. She keeps Needle on a sword belt even then, exasperating Mother and Sansa to no end.

She’s on her way to Storm’s End with Ser Loras a sennight later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about 12k words in and finding that the word count for each chapter just keeps increasing. I'll try to update every week, though. (No promises.)


	3. Winter, wanting

Lord Renly greets them at the gates, and if his embrace with Ser Loras extends into improper, no one says a thing.

He personally shows her about the keep, taking her outside to the turrets. The curtain facing Shipbreaker’s Bay is eighty feet thick, he tells her. Storm’s End has never been successfully seized or destroyed by storms. He laughs as he recounts his childhood here, Robert the jovial, war-loving child, and Stannis, the ever-dutiful. There’s an odd look on his face when he reminisces, and Arya thinks he wishes for what might have been – three brothers ruling side-by-side.

In return, Arya tells him about Winterfell, about Jon and Robb, Bran and Rickon. As they make their way down from the walls, she tells him about the times she’d ruined Sansa’s dresses, or the times Theon had made her scowl by calling her pretty when her sister wasn’t around. She also tells him about their direwolves.

“Nymeria was the best, you know. She only ever listens to me or Jon but she’d protect anyone who’s family.”

“Nymeria, after the warrior queen of the Rhyone?”

“Aye. I wanted to be her, you know. A warrior. And a queen.”

“Mayhaps you shall be, one day.”

“But Cersei wanted Nymeria killed for protecting me from Joffrey. He had a _real sword_ and was going to kill the butcher’s boy I was practicing sword-fighting with. But Nymeria caught his wrist and I threw his sword into the river. I made Nymeria go away, or they would have killed her. They killed Lady instead.”

There’s an odd look on his face at that, something caught between anger and amusement. She prattles on, though, not wanting him to get caught up in whatever he’s thinking of and leave her.

He introduces her to the stallion he’s got for her, a beautiful steed. Its coat reminds her of the snow on the grounds of Winterfell, its dappled spots like the shadows in the Keep. She names him Winter and gives Lord Renly a hug.

She spends the next moon in Storm’s End, riding Winter about. The castellan, Ser Cortnay Penrose, agrees to meet with her after a week of needling. Ser Cortnay tells her of the state of Lord Renly’s holdings, quietly divulging that Renly spends more time in Highgarden and feasting than he does managing his Keep.

Horrified, she might be, but she spends more time with Ser Cortnay when he’s managing affairs from then on. When she does ride Winter, she takes him out to where the smallfolk are, charming them with her sharp tongue and un-ladylike behavior. (_Sansa might be a good lady, simpering and all that rot, but the smallfolk like a lady who cares more about them than her state of dress.)_

A fortnight after her arrival, she runs into Ser Loras sneaking from Lord Renly’s chambers. She turns to leave, but he catches her elbow.

“Don’t you dare tell anyone –“ he begins, anger and fear warring in his eyes.

“I’ve got a horse to ride,” she snaps, wrenching her arm from his grasp. “You’d best remember that.”

She knocks on Ser Loras’ door the next morning, and when he doesn’t reply, she pushes the door open and enters, half-worried she might find him in a state of undress. It’s empty, though, the sheets not slept in, and she proceeds to look for what Varys told her to.

A loose panel behind the hearth leads her to wonder if her room in the Red Keep had a place like this. Nonetheless, she slides open the panel and slips inside, crouched. The passage is low and narrow, but it’s enough.

She creeps through the passages, sliding each panel open a crack to see the room until she finds Renly’s. _Four panels down on the left_, she chants in her mind. And keeps chanting when she hears the rustling of sheets and the decadent sound of coupling through the panel. (No wonder Varys’ birds had known. They weren’t even trying to hide it.)

She counts to ten once they’ve quieted down, scampering quickly through the cold hearth. She ensures her back is to them when she steps out, smirking to herself as she brushes the ash from her tunic. They’re scrambling to right themselves and take no notice when she’s looking about the room.

“Seven _hells_, woman,” Renly is spitting, mad. She ignores him in favour of Ser Loras.

“Come along, ser.” She’s laughing, utterly beside herself. They know she knows, but scramble to hide like children caught trying to steal cake from the kitchens. “Best be back in your room before long. You’ll be seen if you leave now.”

Seeing Loras squeeze through the passage behind her and Renly’s dumbfounded expression was certainly worth the trouble, she decides.

She’s delighted when Loras offers to spar with her, afterwards. Needle held at her side, she revels in the feeling of clashing steel and the blood thrumming in her veins. Even Ser Cortnay’s frown can’t dull her cheer, and the kitchen maids that cheer for her over Loras make her smile.

Of course, he has her in the dirt after a while. Always the gallant knight, he helps her up.

“Thank you,” he whispers in her ear before he lets her go.

She can’t stop smiling the rest of the day. Even when she gets a raven from her sister telling her she’s going to be an aunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering changing the rating to Explicit - later chapters are certainly explicit (but maybe not considered Explicit?)
> 
> 14k words in. I've got all the major events plotted out but any character development/minor story arcs are added in while I write. 
> 
> Do comment on any errors you notice - nothing I write is beta'd so there will be things I don't catch.


	4. dark as the blood spilt (for you and for me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: graphic depictions of violence, major character death

She’s back in the Red Keep, with Syrio and Queen Cersei. Her time in the Stormlands is like a beautiful memory to her now, and even when she’s riding Winter in the Kingswood, she can’t shake the feeling that her days of peace have passed. All around her, nobles hide their intentions behind painted smiles and ruffled silks. It irritates her to no end, how hard she has to try to see the truth.

She isn’t quite sure how it happened. One day she was taunting Joffrey, and the next, Joffrey’s grandfather, the infamous Lord Tywin Lannister, had brought her in to listen to Joffrey’s lessons.

_“Look who it is,” Joffrey sneered as she approached, covered in dust from the training grounds. “The little wolf-bitch. Well, shouldn’t you be bowing and scraping to your future king?”_

_She’d stared at him defiantly, daring him to do something._

_“Ser Madon, Ser Boros.” The armored Kingsguard approached her. One of them (she can never be sure which) seized her arms and the other drove a mailed fist into her belly. It drove the breath from her lungs, and the next breath she drew filled her eyes with tears. She laughed._

_“A _real_ king wouldn’t hide behind his mother’s skirts, don’t you agree? Your Highness. But nay, you’re too weak to even lift an arm to strike me. I bet you can’t even lift that sword of yours. Was it called Cat’s Tooth or something? Or mayhaps that was the one I threw into the river. You don’ t really have power, either. There’s your mother, the Queen, and there’s King Robert, who’s not only a king but a fearsome warrior besides. Even your grandfather, old Tywin Lannister, can make people fear him better than you. Inbred cunt.”_

_The Kingsguard’s next strike made her see stars. She could hear the joints of his armor sliding against each other as he drew his arm back, but it faltered._

_“What,” Lord Tywin said, in that fear-instilling voice, “is the meaning of this?”_

_“I was teaching the wolf-bitch a lesson, grandfather,” Joffrey said petulantly. It was plain that Lord Tywin had heard every word of their conversation._

_“I would think that she was the one teaching you the lesson. Ser Madon, Ser Boros. Dismissed.” Lord Tywin turned to Joffrey while Arya massaged her bruised arms. She prayed for Joffrey to see the death-glare she sent his way, but he was too thoroughly cowed by Tywin to look anywhere but the ground. “You will desist this behavior immediately.”_

_“You can’t command me. I’m the crown prince.”_

_“And I’m your grandfather. I can and I will command you. Take your wounded pride back to your rooms. I will see you for your lessons in an hour.” Still sulking, Joffrey had, stalked away._

_“Lady Arya.”_

_“My Lord.” The courtesies came to her more naturally now, especially now that she knew what was at stake._

_“You will see yourself to the Grand Maester. Should your injuries not be fatal, I will see you in my solar as well in an hour.”_

And thus her pseudo-lessons with Tywin Lannister had begun.

“Suppose one of your seafaring allies, say, the Farmans or the Redwynes, were attacked. At the same time, raiders begin attacking keeps in the Reach. Who do you defend?”

“The ships, obviously. My naval power –“

Lord Tywin cuts Joffrey’s blathering off.

“Lady Arya?”

“The Reach. Without food to feed your armies, especially when winter is coming, you won’t have anyone left to defend you, much less a fleet.” (Her eyes taunted the boy. _You fool_.)

“Correct.” Their days went on like this. Lord Tywin attempting to teach Joffrey something about ruling, but the Prince resisting, even as Tywin used Arya to humiliate him.

“I’m going to be king –“

“And Lady Arya would make a far better king than you, even if she is a wolf-bitch.”

Six months pass like this, spending her mornings in Lord Tywin’s company and her afternoons training with Syrio.

Ser Loras had made good on his word, taking her to Master Tobho Mott to make her a larger Braavosi blade.

She had come to collect her sword when she saw her father with some Tully soldiers with a dark-haired smith.

“Remember,” her father said, using his Hand-of-the-King voice, “he is to be escorted directly to Ser Bryden Tully. The lad will squire for him.”

She tries to slip away, but her father catches her.

“Arya!”

“Groveling apologies, Father.”

He takes her arm, escorting her away from the soldiers.

“What are you doing here? Without an escort, no less!”

“I was getting my new sword from Master Mott, Father. Ser Loras escorted me the first time, so I know the way.”

“Ser Loras? When –“ her father cuts himself off. “Did Syrio say you needed a new sword?”

“No. Ser Loras did.”

“Arya…”

“Don’t worry, Father. There’s nothing untoward happening between Ser Loras and I. He’s one of Lord Renly’s sworn shields. That’s all there is to it.”

Aside from this little bit of excitement, her days were rather dull. The lessons Lord Tywin taught her were invaluable, though she could not see herself wiping out an entire House for the sake of a family name. Sure, she hated the Lannisters and would gladly throttle Queen Cersei herself, but she couldn’t imagine hurting Tommen or Myrcella.

She was still three-and-ten when King Robert died, gored by a boar.

She was still three-and-ten when they imprisoned her father and named him a traitor, Lord Tywin’s eyes glinting.

They locked her in her rooms, but she was sure Lord Varys knew she could get out.

They sentenced her father to death, Queen Regent Cersei Lannister delivering the news herself, no doubt to gloat.

The night before his execution, Arya takes the hidden tunnels in the walls of the Keep to the black cells where her father was held, Needle strapped to one hip and her other sword sheathed at the other. She’d found Syrio with the dragon skulls a few days ago and they’d made plans to go to Braavos.

“Father,” she whispers, horrified by his gaunt face and hating herself for sounding so weak. This was not the Hand of the King, or the Warden of the North, Eddard Stark. This was a pale, sickly man, waiting for death.

“Arya, you have to leave.” His voice was still commanding.

“I know, Father. Syrio will take me to Braavos until it’s safe.”

“Good. Lannister soldiers are all over the Kingsroad, and they’ll catch you before you reach the Neck. Listen, Arya. You have to live. Joffrey –“

“I know. Varys tells me things, and I know his birds.”

“Varys!”

“Yes. He tells me he doesn’t serve a king but the realm.”

There's a pause.

“Arya, you know I’ll lose my head tomorrow. Make sure your Mother and Robb know this before you disappear: Winter is coming, and they should be prepared.”

“I will. I promise.”

“I know. I love you, Arya. Never forget that.”

Tears come, unbidden to her eyes, and she swipes at them angrily.

“I know,” she whispers, brokenly. “I –“

There’s a commotion above them, the clanging of armour and the din of shouts.

“Arya!” Her father grabs her arms through the bars. “When you see him, tell Jon he isn’t my bastard. Lyanna had a boy before she died. Now go!”

Her father pushes her away, and she stumbles back into the passage, still reeling with shock. She retreats when the sound of grunts and boots colliding with her father’s flesh reaches her ears, and Syrio pulls her away.

“_Calm as still water_,” he whispers in her ear. Arya knows they can overcome the guards and take her father with them, but the people know her father’s face. The Lannisters might even declare war on the North, and she couldn’t have that. She wants to be selfish, but she knows the consequences:

War, between the north and the south, whether or not they find him. (_She thinks of Robb, of Bran and Rickon, her mother and Sansa – would they think her craven for not doing anything?_)

They lose themselves in the crowds early in the morning as she leads Winter through the gates. They haven’t discovered her disappearance yet, which is a reassuring thought.

They’re part way to the docks when she hands Winter off to Syrio, drawing a dagger and cutting off her hair.

“Quiet as a mouse, swift as a deer. Meet me at the docks.” She takes off, running. He doesn’t bother to stop her. She thinks it’s because he knows he can’t.

It’s midday when she returns to the capital and the Gold Cloaks are already looking for her. Quickly, she smudges dirt on her face and in her hair, hoping that the dust of the road would further conceal her.

The crowd is thickest at the Sept of Baelor, and she hears her father proclaim Stannis the true king before she sees him. He finds her within moments, eyes widening ever so slightly. He’d know her eyes anywhere.

“Bring me his head!” Joffrey, the cunt, and his mother the Queen Regent stand, victorious as the Kingsguard push her father to his knees. She holds his gaze, quietly reassuring him.

And watches his head tumble down the steps.

A darkness blooms in her, then, darker than her father’s blood that stains the steps and the executioner’s blade (_Ice_, she realized, belatedly.)

She starts her list, then:

_Joffrey Baratheon (Lannister, really)_

_Cersei Lannister_

_Tywin Lannister_

_Illyn Payne_

_The Hound (for what he did to Mycah)_

She vows, as she pushes through the crowds, that she’ll see them dead. One way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The question Lord Tywin poses to Arya and Joffrey is adapted from the Farman Problem in Kallypso's _A Wolf Amongst Lions_ (how do you link a work in end notes?) I loved the Tywin-Arya interactions in the show so I had to include this.
> 
> Yes, Ned Stark is dead. Did you really think he'd live?
> 
> And yes, Arya has her list. Arya without her list is like Arya without her sword arm or Arya liking dresses.
> 
> Question: Should tags be added _after_ they become relevant? I'm worried they give the plot away.


	5. a little house with a red door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: major character death

The ship docks in Pentos, where Illyrio Mopatis intercepts them.

A friend of Lord Varys, he says, and offers them lodging in Pentos.

She wants to go to Braavos, and knows Syrio does too, so she refuses him.

He offers instead one of his properties in Braavos, looking a bit nervous even as he says so, insisting that Varys would be able to contact her more easily that way. That’s the only thing that manages to convince her.

She has him send her house words to her mother and Robb before she leaves.

_Winter is coming_, she writes, _Father urges you to be ready_.

She and Syrio move into a house with a red door.

They have a courtyard where she continues to practice with Syrio and a lemon tree that reminds her of Sansa.

Syrio visits friends while she runs about the docks, chasing cats. It’s oddly nostalgic, but she enjoys it. The people call her Cat, and she lets them, always stopping to chat. She learns Braavosi and the trade tongue, even some Bastard Valyrian from the Lysene whores she befriends.

“How do you pleasure a man who has no interest in women?” she asks, once.

The giggle and show her a contraption of wood and leather – a wooden cock. She laughs and asks if she can get one, maybe even two. (Ser Loras is her friend and Lord Renly her betrothed, still. She thinks of them as often as she remembers her Mother, or Sansa.)

Varys sends word of her family every so often. Robb fashions himself as King in the North to avenge his father’s death. The Vale and the Riverlands declared for him (for his mother, a Tully). Stannis declares himself a King, too, as does Renly. Balon Greyjoy makes himself a king. The Reach stays neutral, with Lady Sansa a wolf and Lady Margery betrothed still to Joffrey.

Stannis and Balon find their way on to her list. (She tells herself it’s because they’re against Robb’s claim. Mayhaps Renly’s claim also concerns her.)

A few moons pass before Varys informs her that Balon Greyjoy has died and Joffrey poisoned at his own wedding. The Imp had escaped after being accused, and killed Lord Tywin as he left.

Just like that, three names were crossed from her list.

She asks Syrio of the gods of the Braavosi on her fourteenth name-day.

“The Braavosi serve many gods, but ours is Him of Many Faces.” He takes her to the House of Black and White that night, pointing out each god of Death in turn.

One of the priests (_A Faceless Man_, Syrio tells her) is convinced to teach her poisons. She’s glad for it, if for nothing but to occupy her evenings. The man knows as well as she does that it’s for her list of names.

“A girl would serve Him of Many Faces.” And there’s no room for argument. Death is her dearest companion now, as sure as the weight of Needle (it never leaves her hip) and as sure as she is that she is Arya Stark of Winterfell.

Ser Barristan Selmy comes to them one morning, plain but for the great sword at his hip.

“Lady Arya,” he bows.

“What brings you here, ser?” She knows he’s been dismissed from the Kingsguard.

He tells her he’s on his way to Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons. It’s the only way to depose of Cersei and the current court, he tells her, confidence faltering at the look in her eyes.

“But,” he adds, quieter, “I would be honored to serve you instead.”

She sends him to Daenerys, the knight who had served three kings and outlasted them all. He’s one of her little birds now (she’ll have to ask Varys how his web manages to extend so far and so wide.)

Soon after, Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, arrives at their door, and Syrio gives her a look of exasperation. (He’s like a father to her now, and she trusts him with her life.)

“My lady.” Tyrion bows as low as he can.

She sends him after Ser Barristan, a second little bird in Daenerys Stormborn’s court.

Red Priests come through Braavos, and she hears that Stannis has a Red Priestess whispering in his ear.

There is the Battle of the Blackwater, and Queen Cersei has the Riverlands burnt in retaliation for Ser Jaime’s defeat and capture in the Whispering Wood.

Stannis’ soldiers are beat back by wildfyre, and Arya thinks: _The Mad Queen_.

The day she hears that Daenerys has begun to attack Astapor is the day Syrio is taken by the god of Death.

It had been near sundown when Westerosi soldiers had chanced upon them. She’s skipping ahead when she hears one of them say, “isn’t that a Stark whelp, Meryn?” and she begins to panic. They’d approached her but Syrio stood in their way.

“Get out of the way, old man.”

“Shut up, Trant. Just kill him and be done with it.”

It’s sudden and she curses herself for not seeing it. The man she identifies now as Meryn Trant unsheathes his sword and swings at Syrio, but her dancing master is too quick for him.

“Run, girl.” She’s backing up now, watching transfixed as Syrio dodges their blades, totally unarmed. It takes her breath away, to see how _worthy _he is to be called “the First Sword of Braavos” as he twists and spins. He hadn’t ever showed her his full strength, even when he’d proclaimed her good enough to be a First Sword herself.

Then a blade plants itself in his shoulder and she’s rushing forward.

“_Quick as a snake, fierce as a wolverine,_” she says to herself as she unsheathes Needle. “_A man who fears loosing has already lost. Fear cuts deeper than swords._”

Her blade is batting away theirs almost of its own accord. Three men of the five lie dead with holes through their throats before Meryn Trant can jerk his sword out of Syrio.

“_Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords.”_ She’s chanting the words, loudly enough for them all to hear. She thinks she hears Syrio whisper a “_just so”_ as her blade is sinking into the other man’s eye. It’s firmly lodged in his skull and she loses it in favor of the dagger she keeps tucked under her sleeve.

She doesn’t look down when she leaps over Syrio’s body at Meryn Trant. He’s dead, and there’s nothing she can do but avenge him. Trant’s sword is still in Syrio, so she’s fearless when she lands on him, dagger stabbing _down, down, down_ until she can’t tell which part of his face is which.

It’s only then that she lets herself up. She’d never been in a real battle like this one, and even this could hardly be considered more than a skirmish.

She hadn’t feared losing at the start. But now, as she looks at Syrio’s lifeless body, she can’t help but think that she’d lost before the fight had even started.

It takes her a considerable amount of effort for her to drag him back to the house. The night is spent digging a grave for him beneath the lemon tree. When she finally lays him down, there’s an eerie sort of finality to it, a sinking realization that _he’s never going to come back, just like Father_.

She buries him with his sword. (_What is a swordsman without his sword?_ he’d asked her once. She hadn’t been able to answer, but now she knows: _dead._) Meryn Trant’s sword marks his shallow grave.

She mourns him and her own father together and sends word to Illyrio she’s leaving Braavos.

A moon later, she’s riding in the Great Grass Sea astride Winter with the Dothraki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meryn Trant doesn't quite get the chance to make it onto her list before she takes care of him. 
> 
> So sorry for killing off Syrio but in a way this is the point where Arya mostly separates from her mentors and finds her own way.
> 
> To people who post their writing: is it just me, or do most people check their work for comments obsessively? Yes, I enjoy writing. I also enjoy reading all your comments - they make my day :)
> 
> Stay tuned :)


	6. Sea and sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

She learns the arakh and masters the short bow, adding Dothraki to her list of languages.

Life on the grasslands is easier, without the politics of the West or the burden of family name. She kills and eats, adding bells to her hair as she wins raid after battle with her _khalasar. _At weddings, she opens the throat of any man who dares to touch her, and when the khal takes a wife, fifteen Dothraki lie dead by her hand.

She’s carefree, choosing to forget all of her past. Here, she’s just Cat. _Havzi_, they call her, _little cat_.

Even when she sees Needle or her unnamed sword, she pushes the memories aside.

She’s half asleep one night when a group of men come into her tent. Even then, they can’t hold her down.

_Your _Havzi_ is quicker than any of you,_ she thinks as she rolls out from under the bloodriders’ hands. Her fingers snag the dagger under her bedroll and she jabs upwards. There’s a gurgle and a spray of blood when she jerks it out of his neck.

Of all the things Syrio taught her, he’d never taught her to fight on her back.

_It’s the khal that wants me_¸ she realizes, so she focuses her efforts on dispatching the two remaining bloodriders. One manages to cover her but she drives a knee upwards and the dagger down.

It’s lodged in his ribs now, and she can’t pull it out without twisting. If she could only get to her arakh, tucked in a corner of her tent.

She makes a dash for the sword but the last bloodrider’s taken out his and blocks her off. Uncomfortably, she’s reminded of that day Syrio had faced off a group of soldiers with nothing. It comes back in flashes and gaps and he’s swinging the arakh at her before she can think to dodge. Her body moves of its own accord and she snaps into motion.

It’s to her advantage that they’d never seen her fight hand-to-hand. It takes the bloodrider by surprise when she sweeps his legs out from under him whilst striking his wrist. She’s got a blade in her hand now and she turns to block the khal’s stroke.

The lighting is dim in the tent, but she’s grateful for it – the Dothraki rarely attack in low light where their horses cannot see. Syrio had trained her to see without her eyes, so she’s able to dodge most of his strikes.

He catches her blade in his, then, and with a flick of his wrist, her stolen arakh is flying out of her hand. She’s scrambling backwards then, running from his slashes. Her hand closes around her hilt and _yes_, there’s the sword Loras had gotten her. Its driving _up, up, _and_ up_, straight into his treacherous heart. The blood that spills from his wound is like ink, running in dark rivulets down the gleaming blade. (Had it ever been bloodied? She couldn’t remember.) It fills the flowery grooves on the flat of the blade. She can almost forgive herself for liking it – in the dim light, the sight could be considered beautiful.

It’s with great reluctance that she finally gets up, wiping the blade off on the _khal’s_ leathers. She takes up his arakh and drags his body out into the brightening sky. For a time, she sits there before his cooling corpse, touching the designs on the blade. The blood has dried some, now, and the grooves of the blade stand out in a rusty brown. _Blood of the _khal, she thinks to herself. _A worthy name. Qoy ki khal_.

Dawn breaks before anyone finds her. She goes to get the _khal’s_ horse, avoiding its bites.

It’s only then that she shouts: _“Jin khal ajjin driv!” The _khal_ is dead. _Then the Dothraki are emerging from their tents, gaping at the _khal’s_ body on the ground. The younger men finally spring into action, running for their horses and rounding up as many of the _khalasar_ as they can. The death of a _khal_ almost always caused their _khalasar_ to break apart.

_“Nakho,”_ she shouts, and impossibly, they do stop. It takes some reasoning, but in the end, she keeps them together. (_“Are we not the greatest _khalasar_ in the Dothraki Sea? Why should we put an end to that?”_) The three men she’d stopped at the start became her bloodriders, her _dothrakhqoyi_. It feels like a betrayal when she calls them _zhey qoy Qoyi_, Blood of my blood, but she does so anyways. It’s with the _khal’s _arakh that she kills his horse, and it’s with the _khal’s_ arakh that she beheads him and his bloodriders, all while his wife looked on, screaming.

Her first act as _khaleesi_ is to escort the former to _Vaes Dothrak_. (She’d never married a _khal_ but proving she could lead them helped some. Killing the khal, too.)

It’s difficult, gaining their loyalty as a foreigner. She spoke their tongue well, but even after a year on the Sea, her skin was far paler than theirs. Her eyes were ghostly, she’d heard them say, the silvery grey of her eyes haunting.

Even then, as more _khalasars_ are absorbed into hers, she feels a sense of respect from them, knowing their _khaleesi_ is as able as any _khal _to lead them and to ride. Her _dothrakhqoyi _become her brothers-in-arms as much as her guards and commanders. They hold the vast_ khalasar_ together, so that her riders number nearly twenty thousand. She meets with her _kos_, the captains of each _khas_, convincing them of her strength. She lets them challenge her, and with every braid she cuts and each bell she adds to her hair, she earns a _ko’s_ respect.

Leading is exhausting, but she can’t help but to think of Westeros. Was her position not like that of a Warden? Her _ko’s_ would be the lords loyal to her, the _khas_ their bannermen. This is easier, though, without the scheming and plotting that the West holds in such reverence. _The Game of Thrones, indeed._

While she would need to earn their respect and loyalty (both _kos_ and every lord under her banner), her bloodriders were brothers, loyal to death. They’d seen what she had done, and they loved her for it. Chomokko is her right hand, her first sword. There’s a seriousness to everything he does, and it earns him her respect. Najaho is the charismatic one who woos the _kos_ with elaborate displays of power. She cannot deny his usefulness nor his charm. Ezzo is the quiet one, the obedient one. He hovers like a shadow at her back, always knowing what was going on. It’s to him she shares her memories of Westeros and her family. It’s him who reminds her to seek what was lost, to find her family again before something (like the Lannisters) takes them away from her.

On her sixteenth name-day, a raven from Varys somehow finds her with a large scroll of updates tied to its grey legs.

_The Krakens have been quashed, once more. Your ward sits on the Seastone chair with his sister as his Hand. The Crow’s Eye flees to the Free Cities in search of a Dragon Queen._

_The brother of your betrothed is burning his bannermen at the behest of his Red Priestess._

_The Reach declared for Renly._

_Tommen and Margery were killed at the Queen Regent’s command in the Sept of Baelor with wildfyre. The council suggests a culling._

_Wildings are clamoring to come south of the Wall._

(And Jon, she thinks.)

Arya thanks the _khalasar_, informing them of the war in Westeros. There’s a look in their eyes when she talks about plundering villages, and she wonders if that’s enough to bring them across the Narrow Sea. Her bloodriders insist on accompanying her (_“zhey qoy Qoyi”_, they tell her. They’d follow her to the grave.)

She rides away, leaving behind the largest _khalasar_ in the Dothraki Sea and heading into the largest conflict she’s known.

She sails for Westeros from Pentos, thanking Illyrio and telling him he’d see a queen on the throne soon.

The first place she stops is Dorne where she greets the Princess Myrcella and Prince Doran (also where her bloodriders are eager to leave – the sands remind them of the Red Waste, though they marvel at the sand steeds). When the princess is sent away, she speaks with the prince.

“Your people would have the Lannisters wiped from the face of the earth.”

“The Sand Snakes, aye, but I would not put this peace at risk.”

She shakes her head. “This is war, and no one stays neutral for long. The Dragon Queen is conquering further and further east in Essos, but the Reach has declared for King Renly. Should he wish it, they would march on to King’s Landing. I only ask for your support.”

Prince Doran would not declare for any king, but she has his support, and the Sand Snakes are eager to have their vengeance.

“Princess Myrcella should be left alive since you can tie the West to yourself with a marriage. I’d leave Lord Tyrion if for nothing else but to spite Lord Tywin’s memory.”

Winter is just as eager as the Sand Snakes are to stretch his legs, and soon she’s speeding along the road to Storm’s End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here I'm trying to give Arya the same opportunities Daenerys got. Except she isn't a Targaryen and doesn't have dragons, but she can kill people so it's fine. And the Dothraki are cool.
> 
> I put most of the Dothraki phrases into a translator so apologies if it isn't correct (please let me know thank you.)
> 
> If you haven't guessed it yet, yes, most of the named characters in GoT/ASoIaF are going to die the same way they do in TV or book canon. Inspired by several fics I read about the tapestry of time, and how deaths cannot be prevented, etc. (You can re-weave the story all you want, but you can't change the lengths of each thread.)
> 
> On a happier note, I've finished writing Part 1 :D
> 
> Comments


	7. many happy returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Character death

When she arrives, she sees Stannis’s flags camped out a distance from the keep blocking the way to King’s Landing and sees Renly’s tents just outside the walls. Just as well. She beckons to her bloodriders.

Ser Cortnay’s eyes widen with recognition as she approaches, and they call for her to be brought into the keep.

“They’re my friends,” she says when they point their pikes at her bloodriders.

It’s still dark when she enters, not yet dawn, and the first face she sees is her mother’s.

“Mother!” she calls as she hands Winter to the stable hand.

Catelyn Stark finds her voice at last.

“Arya… love, we thought you dead! After Ned -” She squeezes her mother tight. “Where have you been?”

She tells her mother of her time in Essos, with Syrio and the Dothraki. She doesn’t tell her mother of the House of Black and White, or that she’s speaking with two members of Daenerys’ court.

“It’s for the best that I was gone, Mother. The realm thinks me dead. What brings you here?” Her mother knows, now, that she’s playing the Game, but ignores it.

“Treating with King Renly. Robb thought that since you were betrothed, he’d be more sympathetic.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Arya!” Ser Loras finds her then, no less surprised, but escorts her to Renly who is camped outside the walls.

She gives her bloodriders a look. “_Yer afichak hrazef anni.” You hold my horse._

“He won’t say it, but he missed you terribly. He’ll be glad to see you alive, trust me,” Loras says, excited enough to ignore the confused Dothraki.

He takes them to Renly’s tent, her mother frowning at the familiarity between them. Lady Brienne is helping Renly with his armor there, and Arya pushes back the curtains, startling Brienne so much she drops the gorget.

“Lady Arya!” She laughs and curtseys, hugging him.

“Dorne supports your claim,” she tells him.

It’s Brienne who notices the shadow first and draws her sword. It goes through the shadow, rippling. Arya reacts, though, and shouts the words she learned from the Red Priests.

“_Lord of Light, keep the shadows at bay!_”

It dissipates with an angry hiss, and she realizes too late that she shouted in the Common Tongue rather than Valyrian. Their eyes are wide with shock.

“We will speak later,” she snaps, turning away.

She rides out with Renly, Loras, Lady Brienne, and her mother at dawn, hiding her face in the shadow of a hooded cloak. Underneath, she’s dressed in Dothraki leathers painted with blue. The bells in her hair tinkle as Winter trots, her arakh pressed to her thigh.

Stannis meets them with the Red Woman, surprise warring with anger on their faces when they see that Renly still lives.

As soon as Stannis approaches, she and Ser Loras swing off their mounts and force him to his knees, her cloak tossed aside.

“You are accused of treason, attempting to take the life of your rightful king,” Renly announces. “The penalty of treason is death.”

Stannis does not speak, white with fear, but the Red Woman starts to speak.

“The Lord of Light with strike down –“

“The Lord of Light banished your shadow, whore,” Lady Stark spits. “Stannis is not the rightful king.”

The Red Woman flees.

Stannis’s bannermen are gathered when Ser Brienne finally speaks.

“In the name of Renly Baratheon, first of his name, rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms, I sentence you to death for treason,” she says.

(_He who passes the sentence should swing the sword_, her father’s shade says.

_There is no god but Death,_ another shade reminds her.)

Brienne levels her sword at Stannis’ heart, right where the fiery heart of R’hllor is.

Three kings remain in place of five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's made it this far.
> 
> Again, so sorry if my Dothraki's bad. I'm also sorry this week's chapter is short. It gets better, I promise.
> 
> For the purposes of this fic I had to kill Stannis off, but lots of respect to that Baratheon. It's a bit unclear in the TV show how Stannis dies exactly. Did Brienne behead him? The frame blacks out so soon I can never figure it out. If anyone knows and can let me know, that would be great.
> 
> Until next week :)
> 
> Small edit/comment: I was reading this thing through for any grammatical errors and I realized that Arya's ability to banish Melisandre's shadow-baby might need some explanation. She was with Syrio in Braavos long enough for Death to become one of her gods. R'hllor is just another one of those death-gods, and from what I know of how red magic works, as long as you believe in the god it works.


	8. raven hair, ocean eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Underage
> 
> will leave a huge space before and after mature content so you can avoid it if you want to

Renly invites them to his solar, after the fact. She’s still in her Dothraki outfit as she sits cross-legged on his bed, wiping off her arakh.

“That was a bit of a stunt you pulled there.”

She shrugs, nonchalant. “The realm still thinks me dead. I’d like Cersei to feel some more fear. You’ll only need to ally with Robb and nearly the entire realm will be at your back. You see, he’s got the North, the Iron Islands, and through Mother he’s got the Vale and Riverrun too. You and Sansa have got a hold on the Reach with their twenty thousand knights. Dorne, too. Cersei’s only got the Lannisters.”

“Dorne? Really?”

“I promised them the West. They have pretty princess Myrcella, anyways, and they hate the Lannisters enough to stand against them.”

“The Dothraki?”

“I think if I promise them plunder and slaves, they’ll gladly march west. Forty thousand more to your cavalry.”

He barks out a laugh.

“Braavos and the Dothraki. You’ve certainly had an exciting few years.”

She laughs, too.

“You’ll have to wed, now,” her mother says quietly, and the smiles slip of their faces. “Your bannermen know she’s returned, and you’ll be needing to seal your alliance with the North.”

Arya sighs and closes her eyes.

“Quietly then, Mother, before you leave. There’s no time for celebrating when there’s still a war to be won.”

There’s no time to make her a maiden’s cloak or a wedding dress, either, so she weds Renly in the Godswood with her mother’s cloak and a gown of Dornish silk. They have a septon officiate the ceremony, but the Old Gods are the ones she comes before.

_Here I am, Father_, she thought. _I hope you can see me. I hope I’ve made you proud_.

She’s escorted back into the feast hall, cloaked in Baratheon black-and-yellow.

“To the Lady Baratheon!” A man raises his drinking horn in a toast to her.

There’s dancing and singing, and Arya laughs as Renly spins her around. There’s no love between them, not yet, but they have an understanding. One that involves Ser Loras.

Loras dances with her too, and she pulls his head down to whisper in his ear.

“Come to his chambers when the guests have gone to sleep,” she murmurs. “I’ve still got to be bedded.”

It’s a bit misleading, and she feels her cheeks head up at what she’s just implied, but before she can clarify, a man shouts for the bedding.

She’s swept up by her new husband’s bannermen, them groping and tearing at her gown. She’d _liked _that dress. All she can think of are these nonsensical thoughts as she’s stripped down. It’s not her modesty that bothers her – she’d spent nearly two years with the Dothraki, by the gods – it’s the idea that she’s about to be tied down to someone for the rest of their lives, and she hates her ten-year-old self yelling _‘I don’t want to be a lady’_. She understands now that it’s part of the role she must play.

Ser Loras comes to her rescue, the gallant knight once more, and throws her over his shoulder away from the grasping hands of the men.

“I meant to help him _perform_,” she mutters, so only he can hear. There’s a distinct change in his demeanor at that, and he squeezes her hand after depositing her in Renly’s chambers.

Their smallclothes have fortunately been spared, so as soon as Renly’s in, she shuts and bars the door.

Putting on one of his tunics, she falls into his featherbed, pulling the sheets up around her.

“Aren’t we –“

She snorts. “We’ll wait for them to leave. Help will come, trust me.”

He’s hesitant but joins her in bed anyways.

She’s almost asleep when she hears the scrape of the hearth’s panel being opened.

“Started without me, love?” Loras japes, pulling them both into an embrace. She laughs and pounds his chest.

“Get off, you great oaf!”

He pulls away, laughing, and draws Renly into a searing kiss. They blush and pull away, Arya realizing she’d been staring at them slack-jawed. She waves her hand.

“Keep going,” she says, smirking, “he won’t get it up for me, but he’ll certainly get it up for you.”

She draws the tunic over her head and shifts to the corner of the bed to give them room. She watches them until Loras puts a hand into Renly’s smallclothes, after which she busies herself with removing her own.

It isn’t difficult to prepare herself, especially with two pretty men going at it in the same bed. The Dothraki rut like horses in broad daylight, but this, she sees, is love-making. Loras has got Renly’s cock in his mouth when Renly finally pushes him away.

“Stop it or all of this will have been for naught,” he laughs, a little breathless. Taking that as her cue, Arya shifts again to the head of the bed and spreads her legs, back propped up against the pillows. Renly closes his eyes and pushes into her, and there’s surprisingly little resistance.

“I thought –“

“I spent the last year on the back of a horse, you fool,” she snorts. “Get on with it.”

He tries an experimental thrust, and she can feel him softening inside her.

“Loras.”

She shifts so Loras can get around her, bare waist skimming close to her cheek as he pulls Renly back into a kiss. It’s easier then, Loras pleasuring Renly with his mouth so he finally, _finally_, spills himself in her.

“You’ve made a _mess_,” she tells him, pulling a face.

“Only doing my duty,” he replies, tossing her his abandoned tunic. She wipes it up and rolls over.

“I’m going to sleep. Enjoy yourself.”

They don’t, though, and Loras slips back into his room. Renly pulls the blankets around their bare bodies, and act that would have been incredibly intimate if she didn’t know he was wishing he was with Loras. The gesture is a friendly one, despite the circumstances, and she feels herself drifting to sleep.

“You know,” Renly says, interrupting her, “if I had to get married, I’m glad it was you. You don’t mind Loras – you even seem to enjoy it sometimes. I would have hated being married to one of those simpering maids Robert wanted me to marry.”

“Mm.” She’s tired and can’t muster the energy to reply.

He chuckles and puts an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. She stiffens momentarily before relaxing again. Having a bare human body wrapped around her own was odd, to say the least, but it’s comfortable. Sleep comes easier after that.

She dreams.

She’s flying over the Kingswood, scroll clutched in her talons. _In her mind she knows it’s the same raven that found her in the Great Grass Sea but raven-Arya has no such qualms_. The wind ruffles her feathers as she flaps her wings. Once, then twice, letting the warm updrafts carry her further upwards. She lets out a small _quork_ when she sees the familiar towers of Storm’s End.

And Arya wakes to Renly’s laughter.

“You were twitching in your sleep, you know,” he tells her, amused. “Then you said _quork_ and I could not restrain myself. My lady.”

“Go back to sleep. What gods-damned hour do you call this?”

“Midday.” Renly’s laughing even harder now, so she gives him a half-hearted shove.

They don’t manage to get dressed until it’s well past noon, driven from the comforts of their featherbed by the ache in their bellies.

Arya finds it so very strange to think of anything as _theirs_. Even when she was in Braavos, entertaining plans of returning to Westeros and avenging her father, she’d still held a hope that she’d remain free, not tied to a king but a warrior-queen in her own right. Renly’s alright, she supposes as she breaks her fast with him in his solar.

He leaves afterwards “to entertain their guests”, and Arya begins drafting letters to her brothers.

_Robb_

_Did you ever imagine I would wed? A king, no less! I know it’s sudden and I’m sorry for not writing the past few years. Your Grace. _

_I’ll come visit you in Winterfell as soon as matters are settled here. Take care of Mother and don’t do anything stupid._

_Your sister,_

_Arya _

_Jon_

_Is it very cold on the Wall? I remember begging Father to take me, once. It seems so long ago._

_I’m wed to King Renly now. If you do need help, I can convince him to send troops to deal with the Wildings? I hope you’re doing well. _

_I still have Needle. Never let go of it, really, and it’s saved my life a few times._

_I hope Ghost is keeping you company and your nose hasn’t frozen off._

_Your favorite sister,_

_Arya_

She finds her mother preparing to leave that evening.

“Mother.”

“Oh Arya,” her mother says, tears misting her eyes. “I’ll miss you so. Are those letters for your brothers?”

“Aye. This one’s for Robb and this one’s for Jon on the Wall. There’s something you should know about him, but it’s not for me to tell.

“Travel safe, Mother.”

She gives her mother one last hug and a longing glance as she rides from the castle accompanied by several of Robb’s bannermen.

She retreats into her solar, armed with a quill instead of a sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter this week :)
> 
> I'm reading through this and deciding that I haven't developed Arya and Renly's relationship enough to be doing this. After Part 1 has been completely posted I'll go back and add some cute snippets but for now, I'll just apologize for the awkward pacing. 
> 
> Chapters so far have been more about developing my Arya and setting the scene for her to do some crazy stuff later. 
> 
> Also super sorry for such a late post - I planned to post this earlier today but forgot to :(
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this :)  
(If anyone has feedback for me that would be great too)


	9. letters for an estranged sister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No chapter warnings

_The Dragon Prince’s son sails for the West with the Golden Company_

_The Dragon Queen holds Meereen_

_Slavers of Yunkai in open rebellion_

_Dorne plans for war (your doing?)_

_Walder Frey grows restless_

As always, Arya keeps Varys’ missives close. He’d sent it by the same raven she’d dreamed of on her wedding night.

She opens the next letter, sealed with a rose.

_Arya_

_Why haven’t you written to me? Ser Loras says you’ve been at Storm’s End for nearly a moon’s turn. Is it your kingly husband that’s occupying your time? _

_I’ll yell at you about it later._

_Lord Willas is very kind to me, thank you ever so much for asking after my wellbeing. I have two daughters already – the sweetest little birds you’ll ever meet. Lorella has my eyes but her father’s hair, and littlest Margery, after my deceased good-sister, is all Tully in looks. They ask after you, you know. Lorella keeps asking me where Aunt Arya is, and I have to tell her you’re busy being a queen._

_I’d never have thought you’d be a queen one day. I always thought you would stay in Winterfell or wed your sigil like those Mormont women do. I’m jealous, sometimes. You know I’ve always wanted to be a queen. I suppose I can settle for Princess Sansa. _

_And Robb – King in the North! I’m so very proud of him. I know you are too. My daughters will grow up princesses – Aunt Arya a queen of one kingdom, Uncle Robb a king of another. I hope you’re doing well._

_Let me know if you’re ever with child – the Tyrells have the most brilliant recipes for treating such sickness._

_With all my love, your sister,_

_Sansa _

Arya sees the words not written and knows her sister will always support her.

_Sansa_

_You know I never wanted to be queen, but I suppose this is for the best. You were always better at being a lady – charming all the lords and ladies that come your way. You’ve probably got everyone in Highgarden wrapped around your finger – I’ve heard motherhood can do that._

_I’m not with child yet but Renly thinks I might soon. In lieu of those delightful Tyrell brews I’ve had Prince Doran send you some Dornish silks. (I’ve always hated dresses but Dornish gowns are so delightful I can’t bring myself to hate them.)_

_When I was in Essos I rode with the Dothraki for some time. I have some relics from my time there I could send you, but I’m afraid they won’t be very appreciated in Southern courts. _

_Tell your daughters Aunt Arya would love to visit them as soon as she has matters settled. If Renly ever manages to get me with child I’ll send them your way. I know I’m going to be a terrible mother, always riding off to do unladylike things._

_Give Ser Loras my best. _

_Your favorite sister,_

_Arya_

_Arya_

_Your observations are correct, as always. Lorella and Margery _have_ charmed everyone, even the old snoot Lord Mace_.

_The silks are beautiful, though I’m not sure if it was the gowns or the radiant Dornish women that endeared you so._

_Don’t say you’re going to be a bad mother – I know you’ll do fine. If it’s any consolation, your future children are very welcome in Highgarden should you ever decide to run off._

_Your _only_ sister,_

_Sansa_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is pretty short too. It's just to remind people that Sansa is still in the picture and will show up sooner or later. (Also I felt bad about marrying her off to Willas and thus not being able to be a badass Queen in the North so :/)
> 
> Until next week :)


	10. whispers of war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: some explicit sexual content, profanity

_Lady Arya_

_Ser Brienne was found hanging from a tree near the Hollow Hill. We have every reason to believe the Brotherhood to be responsible. She has helped quell the Brotherhood somewhat, and we are eternally grateful for her help._

_The Hound was found dead from an infected bite near the mouth of the Trident. His courser is being kept at a small sept a few hours south of Riverrun._

_Lord Bryden Tully, the Blackfish_

“Renly!” She catches him as he leaves from a small council meeting and thrusts the missive into his hands. “I’m going to Riverrun to get her body. The Brotherhood –“

“No. You will stay and I’ll send someone else. You don’t need to go where it’s so dangerous –“

“I _understand_ you’re concerned for my wellbeing. I’ve still got to visit nuncle Bryden and Mother. I wouldn’t mind it if some of your men came with me. I’ve also got my bloodriders.”

“They’re your men too, Arya. I want you to write to me as soon as you arrive. I want you back within a fortnight. There’s talk of dragons coming West and I would have you close.”

She agrees.

They set off early in the morning, the ever-faithful Winter a solid presence beneath her. She mourned the loss of the greatest woman-knight Westeros had ever known, and mourned for herself, too. She’d never gotten to know the woman as well as she would have liked.

They arrive in Riverrun at dusk of the fifth day. She’s tired and dirty but so very glad when she sees Mother and Robb at the gates.

Grey Wind runs out to greet her, tail wagging as he pounces at her. It spooks Winter but once he knows the direwolf isn’t a threat, he goes back to nibbling on grass.

She makes good on her promise to Renly, dispatching a Tully raven while sending a short message to Varys via her own raven.

_Dragons are close_

_Wolves bed down by the river_

_Brotherhood went quiet_

_A lion still caged at Riverrun_

It’s good to be among her family again. Robb tells her all about his victories and she shares with him her own stories of Essos. If Mother is uncomfortable hearing her discuss war with Robb, she doesn’t say anything. When Robb goes to council meetings (_“I’ll let you know what they say afterwards, Arya. What would my bannermen say if I allowed my _sister_ on the council?”)_, she rides or trains with her bloodriders. (Chomokko stubbornly refuses to show her how to use his whip.)

At night she dreams her wolf-dreams again, waking with the taste of blood in her mouth and the smell of _home _and _brother_ on her mind. She knows these dreams to be of Nymeria now, still terrorizing the Riverlands. While she might have dismissed them as just dreams when she was younger, her time with Syrio has taught her to see the truth, even if it is in dreams.

She collects Ser Brienne’s body and the Hound’s courser. Stranger is a beautiful if aggressive beast, towering over Winter.

They prepare to leave on the third morning, the same day she wakes to the taste of her own vomit in her mouth. Dimly, she’s aware of her mother holding her hair as she retches.

“Arya –“

“I _know_, Mother. I’m going to go strangle Renly, the fucking cunt.”

She sends a short note to Sansa before she leaves, asking for that Tyrell remedy. If she’s paler than usual when she bids Robb farewell, he doesn’t seem to notice. She rides with her bannermen, Stranger tied to Winter with Ser Brienne’s corpse on his back.

As she rides in to Storm’s End, Renly comes out to greet her. He’s got this _stupid_, shit-eating grin on his face, and she _really_ wants to kill him.

“Arya! That’s a fine mount you’ve got there. Is it –“

She doesn’t care for what he has to say, launching herself from Winter’s saddle.

“_You miserable, old _cunt. _How dare you?!”_

“Arya, what –“

“Throw a feast or something. You’re going to have an heir,” she spits, words dripping with distaste. He’s evidently confused at her reaction.

“But I thought you wanted –“

“It doesn’t _matter_ what I want! A child! In the middle of a war! _I will run you through with your own sword, you miserable bastard_.”

It takes a few days for her to calm, helped along by his soft words and touches. (Ser Brienne’s body is sent home to Tarth after the Silent Sisters prepare it.)

She sits in on his council meetings instead of worrying about _children_ and _the future_, finding some worth in being there. He’s still lacking a Master of Whispers, grousing about how Varys would be helpful. His council is surprised she knows as much as they do, perhaps even more about enemy movements.

“Last I heard, the Young Wolf was betrothed and about to marry one of the Freys.”

“That’s old news, Lord Tarly. My brother has made a fool of himself and married a Westerling at the Crag.”

When she’s finally convinced them she knows enough to sit on the council as Mistress of Whispers, word of Aegon Targaryen finally reaches them.

“The Pretender has captured Dragonstone. He’s only got some sellswords with him –“

“The Golden Company, ser. It’s very unlikely they’ll turn cloak.”

“We’ll send Ser Loras to lay siege to Dragonstone. They don’t have many resources and certainly no smuggler-knights to help them. We’ll only need to wait them out,” Renly says, confident.

“On the topic of smuggler-knights, Ser Davos is currently being hosted by Lord Manderly of White Harbour,” she tells the council. “Shireen Baratheon is currently with him.”

“An old smuggler and a diseased girl is of little threat to me at the moment. Have Lord Manderly keep them there and monitor their contact.”

“The girl can be said to have a better claim than you. I would have her to foster at Winterfell, if it please you. The smuggler can accompany her. The farther he is from the sea, the harder it will be for them to be lost.”

After the meeting had adjourned, she pulls Renly aside.

“Is it really a good idea to send Ser Loras? You know he can be impulsive at times.”

“I’d trust him with my life. They’ll set out within a week.”

“Just because you can trust him with your life doesn’t mean you can be sure he’ll handle a siege. This is Loras we’re talking about – the gallant, I’m-going-to-charge-into-every-battle-without-thinking Knight of Flowers. I’m so worried he’s going to do something rash.”

“Hush now. You know he’s going to do everything in his power to make sure he gets back to us in one piece. In the meantime, dear wife, you should be resting and not fretting. So much stress can’t possibly be good for the babe. Have you thought of any names yet?”

She splutters. “I’m hardly two moons along, Renly. Names already?”

“I was thinking Steffon for a boy and Cassana for a girl, after my father and mother.”

She gapes at him, thinking to strike him for his insolence when she sees the mirth in his eyes. She mutters something about impaling and swords.

“Ser Cortnay was looking for you, actually. He wanted your opinion on something to do with guard rotations.” She knows Renly only says this to ease her fear for Loras, but she’s grateful for it all the same.

She gives him one last look before striding away. “The names are acceptable.”

The night before Loras leaves, the three spend the night in Renly’s bed. It was certainly difficult for them to warm to a woman in their bed at the start, but now they’re as comfortable with her as they are with each other. She’s wedged between the two of them, Renly’s thumb tracing circles higher and higher up her bare thigh while Loras, who’s seated behind her, has Renly’s cock in his hand, drawing groans from her husband with each languid stroke.

They’d dubbed this the “Arya Pie”, and she calls them crusty old men in response. While its clear that they still prefer each other, Renly’s idle fingers find their way to her cunt more often than not. Now that she’s pregnant, there’s no need for them to try for an heir, but she enjoys the intimacy all the same.

She gives Loras her gift wrapped in a soft blanket in the morn.

“A little something for lonely nights. I know sieges can be terribly boring.”

His eyes widen when he feels what’s in the fabric. Leaning from his mount, he does his best to give her a hug. “Give Renly a kiss for me,” he breathes into her ear, and he’s off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update this week
> 
> Will update as usual next Sunday. 
> 
> Have a nice day :)


	11. another wound (yet the same)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Character death, blood and gore, explicit sexual content (underage? I'm not sure anymore)

The siege lasted two moons.

Arya tried her hardest to avoid thinking about Loras and how he fared, focusing instead on running Storm's End.

After exchanging a few letters with Lord Manderly and several with Bran, she'd made sure Ser Davos and Lady Shireen were safely in Winterfell.

Renly came to her chambers unbidden, a fortnight after Loras had left. He'd gathered her into his arms and called her wife, murmuring sweet nothings into her ear as he carried her to the bed.

She didn't protest. As sudden as the development was, she welcomed it.

With near-reverent hands, he undressed her, laying her out bare on the bed. His fingers skimmed across her skin, tracing a line down from the column of her throat.

"My lovely wife. I'd wondered why I desired you after Loras went off. I simply came to the conclusion that you are more man than any of the men I've had the misfortune of meeting." She snorted, turning it into a gasp as he trailed the finger across a nipple.

"It becomes you, really. The only things you lack are a beard and a cock, the first of which I care little for and the latter which I make up for."

"And the babe."

"And the babe," he agrees. "What gods found me worthy of such a bride?"

Whatever words she had to say to that were swallowed up by his mouth. This was nothing like before, those curious little pecks and touches. This was heat and longing. There was little for her to do but respond in kind.

His mouth found its way to her cunt in time, and the little gasps she'd made before were drowned out by her cries. He'd only lifted his head long enough to give her a smirk.

"Don't squeeze my head too hard, love. I've still got a crown to wear on the morrow." And he lowered his lips, glistening with wet, to her cunt once more.

She fell apart under his ministrations, gasping for breath as he came level with her.

"You'll be sitting on the Iron Throne in no time, love," he said, thrusting into her. "But for now I'd ask you to be satisfied with my castle and my cock."

Neither of them spoke another word until they'd had their pleasure.

"I do have one, you know," she muttered.

"What."

"A cock. It's in a chest under my bed with the harness and everything."

"Seven hells."

They didn't sleep for another while.

She was a raven again in this dream. Below the clouds, over Dragonstone, she saw an army preparing to march. She circled, identifying the stag and rose banners.

She turned away. There were letters to deliver.

Renly's small council was gathered when a rider came. He immediately took a knee.

"The siege is broken, Your Grace.” There are excited murmurs all around. The man, however, isn’t done. “Ser Loras led the charge himself, Your Grace, and he implores you to sail for Dragonstone to claim the castle for your own.”

“He should have waited them out,” she grumbles to Renly, but she’s happy about it all the same. They’re about to board a ship when Ser Cortnay runs out of the castle, missive in hand.

“Your Grace! The rebels are fighting back. Stay until it is safe, I beg of you.”

Word arrives by the hour of the wolf as they sit around the council table, no man voicing his thoughts or worries. It’s another man, bleeding from multiple wounds.

“The castle is taken, Your Grace. Losses were not light. The pretender escaped with his guardian. And Ser Loras…” the man gulped.

“Ser Loras what? I command you to tell me at once.”

“Ser Loras took a spear to the belly in the battle, Your Grace,” he says, a whisper. “The maester does not believe he’ll live to see the morrow.”

Something snaps inside her then, something even the deaths of Father and Syrio hadn’t done. _This is war_, she thinks, _true war. Not the games I played with Jon and Robb and Bran in Winterfell but the kind of war where men die in the name of their king_. _Even Ser Loras_. She doesn’t notice the tears on her face until Renly wipes them away and pulls her tight to him.

“Prepare a ship,” Renly said, voice muffled by her hair. “We will sail to claim Dragonstone and give Ser Loras the honor he deserves.” He’s schooled his face into steely indifference and Arya tries to imitate it. It matters little, now. Both of them are breaking apart and neither of them can voice it.

“It may be that he still lives,” she says, forgotten hope leaking into her voice. “Ser Loras is strong, and he might live.”

On the deck of the ship, Renly shouts for them to row faster, to steer better. Even then, it’s still the hour of ghosts when they arrive. She doesn’t call for him to wait for her because she knows his urgency. There’s a bit of a mad scramble as the king searches in desperation for his lover’s tent.

Ser Loras is barely clinging on to life when they finally find him.

“Loras…” Renly sounds as broken as she feels. She gives them some time, standing to the side and eyeing his wound with faltering hope. The maester had sawed away the ends of the spear but the head and the shaft still remained in him.

“It’s too dangerous to remove it now,” the maester tells her, “for we do not know what organs it has touched. If we leave it in he may have a few hours more. There is little more I can do.”

The tent is suffocating. She can’t bear to look at the men, clutching each other as tight as they can. It’s almost like Renly thinks he can keep Loras alive by will alone.

_Valar morgulis_, she knows. _All men must die, even Loras, or Renly. Robb, and Mother and Jon and everyone. First you die, then you serve._ She turns and rushes out of the tent.

_I did this, _she thinks, _I didn’t stop Renly from sending him, didn’t tell him to claim Dragonstone as soon as Stannis was dead. I gave Loras a gift that would make him want to return sooner. So he was reckless. I did this. Once Loras is dead Renly will follow too. I did this._

She holds the tears, the hurt, in. This is so much worse than her father’s or Syrio’s death. With theirs, she could have done something, she could have fought. And they could choose. With Loras, what was there for her to fight? Not the infection, surely taking hold of him now. Not the wound, so wide even a maester could not hope to fix.

_I’ve failed. I’ve failed Father, failed Syrio, failed Renly and Loras. _What good was her training if she couldn’t prevent these things?

_What do we say to the god of Death?_

_Not today._

“Not today,” she murmured to herself, rocking back and forth. “Not today, not today.”

When Renly finds her, just as dawn breaks, he has a look on his face and Arya _knows_. He pulls her to him, and she _shatters. _She can feel him falling apart, too, and clutches his arms as tight as she can, as if to hold him together. She can hear someone keening, caught halfway between a cry and a howl.

“It will be alright, Arya,” Renly says, and she realizes that it’s her.

They stay that way, Renly with his arms around her and her clutching said arms, rocking back and forth.

“I’m sorry,” she finally whispers, once her tears have run dry. “I couldn’t do anything.”

He finally pulls back at that, looking into her eyes. “Don’t be sorry. There’s nothing any of us could have done. He’s –“ his voice breaks, “he’s resting, now.” She feels so much like a child then. Six – almost seven – and-ten, and she’s never felt this way before.

She buries her face in his shoulder once more.

They stand when Ser Cortnay comes to find them. Their eyes are rimmed with red, but they’ve come to terms with it, for now. She still feels like she might fall apart all over again at any moment, but the feel of Renly’s hand in hers is reassuring.

“Take us to the throne room,” Renly says, commanding.

They pass through arches in the form of dragons, doors carved with their likeness, and she shivers. She’d always thought dragons to be wonderful – even as a child, thinking of Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen, she’d wanted to ride a dragon. (Wielding her own Valyrian steel sword.) The closer they get to the throne room, however, the more dragons lose their appeal. _Fire made flesh_, they were called. Arya remembers hearing of the wildfyre on the Blackwater and shivers again.

The throne room is just as dark and foreboding. As Renly lowers himself onto the throne, she lets go of his hand to sit on the steps at his feet. It’s difficult for her to act regal and indifferent. She feels guilty for making Renly bear that burden, but she’s grateful for it, nonetheless.

The stone is cold beneath her, the chill seeping into her pores. It’s with her head leaning against Renly’s knee that she finally falls asleep, hearing him dismiss every person in the room.

She feels herself being picked up, followed by a gentle swaying. She presses closer to the warmth she finds and lets the swaying-and-floating carry her forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! Loras has to die in the siege, regardless of how much I like his hair or his attitude. 
> 
> As always, comments are really appreciated. If there's anything you think needs work, please let me know! As soon as all of Part 1 is out I'll start implementing edits and such.
> 
> And sorry for the delayed post - our flight got cancelled, so I only got home last night.


	12. wolves and sheep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: character death, minor graphic depictions of violence

It was understandable that Walder Frey would ask for something to pay for Robb’s slight of the Freys. Mother had written and told her that they’d asked for nuncle Edmure’s hand instead. The Lord Frey had even asked for her, to which her mother had reminded him of her betrothal to Renly. It mattered little in the negotiation that they were married, at the moment. Starks did not break betrothals. Walder Frey would get Edmure Tully and no more than that.

She writes Varys and tells him of this new development. He replies with a carefully worded message about the Old Lion making deals with the Lord of the Crossing. The Old Lion clearly meant Tywin Lannister, who was dead. Dead men made no deals, so she was content to let it be.

She shows Renly the note and he mutters something about “friendly” and “Varys”.

“Arya,” he begins, “don’t you think he has a reason for telling you specifically who was involved in a deal, and now?”

“Well Lord Tywin is dead, so there’s nothing to be done –“

“What kind of deal do you think Lord Tywin would have made with Lord Frey?”

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Renly _is_ quite adept at understanding the Game. She sees what he sees too late, though. The cyvasse board had been set in favour of the Lannisters, and unless she could amass and army in three days or summon a dragon, there was nothing she could do but ride off and court Death.

“_He wouldn’t dare_,” she hisses, crumpling the parchment.

“There are very few things lions dare not do, my lady. Send a raven and pray to the Seven it arrives in time. Even a Dornish sand steed cannot make the journey to the Crossing in such a short time.” He sounds sad, apologetic. After Dragonstone, Renly hadn’t smiled or jested about anything.

“I _cannot_, _will not_, leave my family in the hands of the damned Seven,” she tells him, already getting her riding leathers. “What were the last few years for, but to learn to protect them? If I don’t get there in time I’ll slit Walder Frey’s throat, Lord of the Crossing or not.”

“Arya, the babe –“

“I’ll take my bloodriders with me. The Dothraki practically give birth in the saddle.”

“You know I can’t stop you,” Renly says, looking even more upset, if that was possible. “But please, Arya. I can’t lose you too.”

That makes her hesitate.

“Renly,” she says, voice softer this time, “you know I have to do this. Would you forgive yourself if you had a chance to save someone you loved and didn’t take it?”

He watches her ride from the keep, a forlorn expression marring his handsome features.

The journey is hard on her, especially with the babe. Chomokko and Ezzo share worried looks while Najaho tries to distract her with grandiose tales. She notes their concern but presses on anyways.

Twice they’re set upon by bandits, and twice her bloodriders turn them away.

They fear for her, as is expected. It isn’t until afterwards that she realizes that they fear for the babe too. How would they follow her if she died birthing the babe? They would fight for and with her against anyone and everyone, but childbirth – they could not follow.

She pushes these thoughts from her mind. Her family – mother and brother – were at Death’s door and neither of them knew it. She’d let her bloodriders fuss _after _her family was safe.

They arrive, driving their horses, by nightfall of the third day. She can already hear the singing and cheers of the Frey men as she draws near to the Twins, and her heart soars. They’d made it in time.

She’s approaching the gates when she hears the cheers turn into screams.

Her blood runs cold.

A howl pierces the air, so full of pain she feels it in her bones, and she urges her horse forwards. Ezzo sees the danger and immediately begins driving her horse away from the feast hall. They surround her, pushing her away, but not before she sees the gristly head of a direwolf on a pike. _Grey Wind_, she knows, and in the recesses of her mind, she hears the pained howl of a sister-wolf, bereft of her brother.

“I _have_ to go back,” she cries, “I promised to kill him. _I will kill him, let go of me – _Mother might still be alive, Robb, maybe. Stark men –“ Her bloodriders forcibly drag her from the Twins, tying Winter to the saddle of Najaho’s horse and refusing to let go.

She falls into a dead faint.

When she wakes again, they’ve left the Riverlands already, Winter trotting at a steady canter while her bloodriders look on worriedly. Given the lack of bruises and aches, she’s sure she didn’t fall from the saddle, thankfully.

They tell her they’re still two days’ ride from Storm’s End, and she lets out a breath. She can’t face Renly or anyone, really. Not after she’d failed what she’d set out to do. When they come across a group of soldiers making japes about the wedding, Arya leaps from her saddle and drags the mouthy one from the fire, driving her dagger into his back again and again. There’s a certain numbness to this killing, a lot like what she’d felt when she killed Meryn Trant. This soldier had been there when Mother and Robb had been killed, and she sought to sate her bloodlust with it.

Now all she was left with was a hollow feeling of dissatisfaction.

Her bloodriders drop the bodies of the other soldiers and help her back onto her horse. The rest of the journey is silent and subdued, the heat of a fight like a distant memory.

Renly meets her at the gates, much like her last foray to and from the Riverlands, and the look on his face promises more ill tidings.

“Are you alright, Arya?” There’s a tenderness, a softness to the question, as if he was afraid she’d turn on him the moment he breathed wrong.

“Alright.”

“They’re calling it the Red Wedding. The Queen is calling it vengeance for her son.”

“Of course,” she says, distantly. Her eyes sharpen as she notes his hesitation. “There’s more you’re not telling me.”

“I – I don’t want to upset you further.”

“Tell me.”

He sighs, but complies with her wishes. “We’ve had word that Winterfell was sacked by the Bolton bastard a moon past.” He pauses, noting her widening eyes and creeping horror.

“I’m sorry, Arya. They said the bastard had your brother’s heads put on the walls.”

She presses a hand to her mouth, choking back a sob. First Father, then Syrio, Loras, Mother, Robb, Bran, and Rickon. Who was left? A sister and a bastard brother.

It hurt to breath, to think, to _live_. She hadn’t understood what the Faceless meant by death being a gift. She did now.

There is a wetness on her face and trickling down her thigh, her swollen abdomen cramping painfully. She collapses against Renly, hand pressing to herself to staunch the flow of blood.

“The babe,” she whispers, before letting the darkness claim her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What really makes me mad is when people overuse the representative animals of each House. Like, please, I get that lion = Lannister and wolf = Stark, so I'm sorry for using that reference in the chapter title. 
> 
> I'm so sorry for doing this to Arya, but as this part of the story is all about death, I've got to finish killing all the people off. Sorry!
> 
> I'm also very sorry for the late update - I promise I'll update on time next week. 
> 
> Thanks for all your comments!


	13. mockingbird

She wakes, sore and tired. There’s an emptiness in her, physically and in her soul – parts of her torn away, one after the other.

_What gods are so cruel?_

She notices the presence of someone at her bedside, asleep. Renly, antlered crown tossed haphazardly to the side, more disheveled than she’d ever seen him (with the notable exceptions of those bedroom occasions.) He stirs, seemingly noticing her consciousness, and groans.

“Arya -,” he begins, looking sorrier than a raven just roosting after a storm.

“I’m alright, Renly. Truly.”

“I think not. No one can lose so much and be alright. I was four when my lord father and lady mother perished in Shipbreaker’s Bay. I was four, and it still hurt.”

“It’s for the best,” she says with a sight. “Did you know that when I was in Braavos, I learned with the Faceless Men? They told me that there is no god but Death, and that death is a gift. It’s better that they are gone, that their suffering is ended.”

“How can you… they were your family, Arya!”

“You think it doesn’t hurt?” she spits at him, sitting upright so suddenly her head spins and her body burns painfully. “Of course it does. It hurt when Father died, when Loras died. It hurts now too.”

“Then how –“

“I remind myself that people need to die,” she says, closing her eyes and sinking back down. “_Illyn Payne, Cersei Lannister, Aegon Targaryen, the Bolton Bastard, the Freys. Valar morghulis._”

She hears him let out a breath.

“I’d assume everyone on that list will find their way to the Stranger in one way or another?” She doesn’t bother to reply.

They stay silent for a long while.

“The babe,” she finally says, voice barely a whisper, “what –“

There’s a choked sob from Renly, and she opens her eyes.

“You were seven moons along, the maesters said. Difficult to lose one so late and come through mostly unscathed –“

“Renly…”

“A boy,” he finally breathes, “barely larger than my hand. He had your nose, I think.”

“Steffon,” she says at last. “Steffon Baratheon, second of his name.”

There’s a movement, and suddenly she finds Renly’s arms encircling her.

“You’ve lost so much. I’ve lost a lot. But we’ll keep each other to the end.”

She lets out a strangled cry and drops the scroll. Renly rushes to her side.

“Arya! What –“

“Littlefinger,” she breathes. “_Littlefinger_. _Valar morghulis._ Where is he? I’m going to kill him. Get my horse.” She’s breathing heavily, eyes glazed over. Renly takes her arms and shakes her.

“Arya. What do you mean, Littlefinger?”

“Varys,” she bites out the name, “tells me that after Lord Tywin died, Littlefinger took over the plot. Destabilize the North and destroy the Starks in one fell swoop.

“_Chaos is a ladder_, I heard him say once. _I should have known_.” The last four words rise in volume until her voice is a shrill screech, grating against her own ears.

“Arya. Think for a moment. Lord Baelish will never meet you on the battlefield. He’s probably at King’s Landing right now. You can’t get in and out without help, at least not now. You can get him when we sack the Landing, I promise you.”

Oddly enough, she’s reassured by that.

Of course, any semblance of peace is shattered soon after.

_Lord Commander Jon Snow has fallen in service, fulfilling his vows to the Night’s Watch. _

One line held such weight. She read on.

_Several brothers of the Watch mutinied, citing dissatisfaction with his leadership as reason for directly causing his death. The brothers are currently held in the ice cells at Castle Black._

She would ride for the Wall. After the siege. One name at a time.

Arya spent her waking hours planning to sack King’s Landing. She’d written to the Reach and to Dorne, to the Vale and the river lords, urging them to send their armies. The Storm Lords were eager to throw their lot in with the new king and a letter to Ser Bryden Tully made it so that Ser Jaime would be brought with them, chained.

A covert letter from Tyrion assured her that the Dragon Queen would not be interfering, and her nephew, the Pretender, had taken up residence in Meereen as well.

A fortnight after the first, Arya receives a second letter from Castle Black.

_Arya_

_I know they told you I was dead. I really was. No one survives being stabbed in the heart. _

_But a witch came and resurrected me, apparently, according to Ser Davos. Princess Shireen is here too, in case you needed to know. _

_Anyways, the Red Woman said I was Azor Ahai, whatever that means. The Prince Who Was Promised, she tells me. I’m not a prince and I certainly wasn’t born in a storm._

_I hope I can see you after all this._

_Your brother, _

_Jon_

Such simple words brought staggering relief. Jon and Sansa were still left to her. She would endure. They would endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading today :)


	14. fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: death, generally

The siege was, strategically, brilliant.

Of course, it was not without fault. While the Redwyne fleet was large, the Blackwater was larger still. If the Queen decided wildfyre was necessary again – Arya shuddered to think of the consequences. With the fleet decimated, it would only be a matter of days to clear the Black and allow the Farmans to bring supplies back up to King’s Landing.

The sheer size of the invading armies would also be difficult to conceal – ravens would fly long before they caught sight of the capital, and there would be much time for the defenders to prepare for the siege.

A dragon would be useful, she muses, taking a break from long hours in the Chamber of the Painted Table on Dragonstone. The stone dragons stare down at her, eyes unseeing, and she wishes then for one to come alive just long enough that victory would be sure.

Then she remembers the smell of the Riverlands burning and the thought of wildfyre and decides she will _never_ willingly let people burn.

The salt of the spray lifted by the wind and the biting cold drives her back to the Chamber. The lords sworn to Renly are still there, plotting forgotten and sipping fine Dornish wine. The table was as she had left it – sigils and representative pieces poised to close around King’s Landing.

Just then, the doors burst open and Princess Arianne Martell rushes through, hands clutching a letter as the guards stationed at the door try to hold her back. They’re pushed away by another Dornish woman, wearing breeches.

“Your grace,” she says, breathlessly, voice hitching. She still performs a perfect curtsey though she’s shaking, and Arya envies her, just a little. “My lords.” She turns to Arya, eyes pleading.

“Your grace,” she breathes, stepping towards her, “Arya. Please.” She thrusts a letter into Arya’s hand and leans back into her cousin’s arms.

Slowly, she unfolds the letter, watching the Dornish princess for any sign. The surest was fear.

She reads through the letter quickly, hands clutching the parchment in a white-knuckled grip. Finally, she looks up and meets the princess’ eyes. She hands the letter back and lets out a low hiss.

“I am sorry for your loss,” she says, perfunctorily. “You will have your vengeance soon. As soon as Westeros is us and ours, we will deal with the dragonspawn.”

The Chamber is silent then, and she turns back to the assembled lords.

“Daenerys Targaryen has married the Pretender and declared him King Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name.”

She hears the silence of shock as loudly as the cries of indignation. She raises a hand to silence them again.

“First we will drive the lions from the throne,” she says, to deadly silence. “Then we will drive the dragons from the earth.”

“She has dragons,” the cousin says, the only one willing to say the obvious. “How will you kill her if she has dragons?”

“Lady Elia, was it?” The woman nods.

“Lady Lance,” she says, proudly.

“Lady Lance.” Arya nods. She looks the woman in the eye. “Anything can be killed.”

The beginning of a siege is subtle. All around, lords are assembling their armies and bringing in the harvest. The harvest is done in the light of day. The armies come in the dead of night. There is never more garrisoned in one keep than necessary. Every keep holds its own men. Nothing is certain between lords but the hour they march.

The hidden war begins with the Ironborn raiding the Westerlands. They steal gold and women and burn crops and sink ships, so the Lannister army is in some disarray. Arya has never been more thankful for Theon.

The Dornish pay a visit to Dragonstone, then retreat some to Evenfall Hall to meet with the Lord of Tarth.

The men of the Riverlands celebrate at Riverrun before the lords take their armies separately around the Trident. One force stops near Harrenhal, another by the Stoney Sept.

The Lord of Highgarden takes his wife and daughters and a large contingent of men to Storm’s End and another near Bitterbridge.

Quietly, the Storm Lords take their ships into the Bay of Crabs.

Her bloodriders return from Essos with a cavalry of forty thousand.

At the appointed hour, each force begins to march. They march in the cover of darkness, each to his own. They sleep in the day, hidden in forests and glades, flying few banners.

When the sun rises over the capital a few days after the order to march, the city guard rouse to see the assembled might of the Riverlands and the Reach, interspersed by a few knights of the Vale attended to by forty thousand Dothraki.

Arya hears this from the riders the lords had sent, along with word that the few Dornish women and Stormlanders she had sent ahead had made it through the Iron Gate and into the city.

They wait.

Several times, Farman ships are turned away by the Redwyne fleet. Several times, wildfyre is launched into the bay. The ships are almost always out of range when it does happen.

When Lannister men rush back to King’s Landing to defend their queen, they cross the river. Upstream of them, the river lords who remained at the Stoney Sept break the dam they’d built. As the Lannisters struggled not to sink under the weight of their armour, a Tyrell man tells her, the Tyrell army assembled at Bitterbridge had descended upon them. The River lords were quick to follow, crushing the Lannister force between them.

Once the threat from the West had been quashed, these smaller contingents joined with the armies assembled around the capital. Food flowed aplenty from the Reach, and there was never a lack for fine Dornish wine.

The little birds Varys had handed over to her were useful in the coming weeks. Arya had to be sure the people inside were desperate enough before she launched an attack – they would be careless, then, and hunger would drive them to chaos. More so would the presence of a certain Ser Jaime Lannister, captive of the Starks and Tullys for the last five years and a far cry from the golden man she had known.

When the gates fell six moons in, opened from the inside, the Dothraki were the first into the capital. Nothing terrified people more than a foreign cavalry, screaming as they slaughtered you. The smallfolk inside the city – Arya allowed herself a moment to mourn before leading her men forward, still a little ways outside the keep.

The armies that followed the Dothraki into the city were met with a little resistance. The city guard were incapacitated – a bit of Dornish poison had done it – so the soldiers that rushed to meet them were scattered and undisciplined. A messenger tells her they have lost Ser Jaime, and she waves him aside. She has no more need of lions. He would undoubtedly go to his sister, which would accelerate the plan.

With the appointed signal, the armies suddenly turned and retreated, a move that would have confused any commander. The remaining soldiers still loyal to the soon-to-be-dead queen rushed to shut the gates behind them, wondering what possessed them to do so.

There was a pause, before a resounding _BOOM_ shook the city.

Wildfyre.

Arya could see it from where she was, hidden in the Kingswood. The bright emerald flames swathed the city, first at the walls, then further inwards.

She could hear the screams and smell the burning flesh.

When the explosions finally stopped, the smaller forces came through the gates nearest Blackwater Rush, clambering over broken stone and gate to finish the gristly work Cersei’s fire had begun. They cut down everyone they saw burning, indiscriminate of man, woman, beast, or child.

In the corner of her eye, Arya saw Chataya’s burning, and her heart went out to the woman, likely dead now.

Varys had arranged for false reports to be brought to the Queen so she would become desperate and destroy her own city. Now Arya questioned the necessity of it. A true siege would have worked the same. She’d be able to slip into the city unseen and slit the Queen’s throat, and the war would have been over. But she had agreed with Varys’ plan.

_Every choice matters_.

The soldiers moved methodically, beginning at the gates and sweeping up Aegon’s Hill to the Red Keep. The keep itself was crumbling, more grey than red. She was grey, too, underneath layers of ash.

“Rebuilding may take time,” Renly says quietly, appearing at her elbow.

She manages a noncommittal sound. Inside, she’s mourning for the people who died for her revenge, dying even as she walked up the steps into the Keep.

Somehow, Varys finds her as she walks into the throne room. Renly on her left, Varys on her right. Two men whose power she had wielded for her own.

“The Queen and her brother have gone below into the crypts,” Varys tells her, “along with the remaining Queensguard.”

She looks at him expectantly.

“The crypts are crumbling, your grace.”

She nods. “Have someone find their bodies once the ash is settled. I want my men watching every gate and every possible exit.”

“You will find no one more suited to the task than my little birds, your grace.”

At the end of the hall, the Iron Throne sits, untouched by the fire or falling stone. It’s the very seat her father had sat on, the seat so many had fought for. It’s the seat that had poisoned so many minds. She worries it might poison hers.

Renly lowers himself onto the throne, still clad in his green-enameled armour and antler-crown helm. He removes the helm once he is seated, handing it to Arya. She glances at him and sees his shoulders slump. From weariness or worry, she could not say.

She sits herself at his feet, much like that day on Dragonstone, helm cradled in her arms.

Varys comes to stand behind the throne after he has sent his bird off. There is no question about his place. He had taught and served her faithfully, and he would continue to do so for Renly.

The lords finally file into the ruined hall, some clad in silk and others in soot-stained armour.

One by one, they kneel before Renly (and her), swearing fealty to Renly Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhyonar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

As the proceedings become tedious, she finds his hand reaching for her, and she takes it in hers.

There’s a quiet reassurance there. He does not look at her or smile at her, but she knows it all the same.

Jon, Sansa, and Renly. They would stay with her. She would be strong still for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me for so long :) I haven't been writing much lately, so I hope I'll be inspired somehow and keep writing.
> 
> As always, feedback is appreciated. If anyone has tips for keeping consistent verb tenses, I'd love to hear them.
> 
> Have a nice day :)


	15. qoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Character Death, Blood and Gore, non-explicit sexual content

Once the bloodlust had been washed away and the weariness following, they are left empty, wrung out. The victory is still a victory – she could hear men celebrating still – but it feels like a hollow one. She feels hollow, too, as if the slightest breeze would fell her.

When the lords and ladies have gone and the throne room was empty once more, she helps Renly out of his armor. It stinks of blood and ash, the very smell that lingers on her, and she is overcome with a sudden urge to tear away the layers of ash-saturated clothing and skin. She feels unclean, she decides, not only stained with blood on her clothes but also the blood of innocents, invisible on her skin.

When the final piece of the armor is off, Renly turns to her and gathers her in his arms. _He feels empty, too_, she decides.

His normally fine hair is plastered to his forehead, smudged with dust. The linens he still wears are stained with his own sweat, a heady smell that wafts towards her, comforting her and exciting her in equal measures.

They stumble into the nearest unoccupied room, kicking the door shut behind them. She collapses backwards onto the featherbed and he tumbles in after her, smothering her in wet, open-mouthed kisses.

When their passions are spent, Renly rolls over and promptly falls asleep. She stays awake for a few more minutes, listening to his even breathing. With a sigh, she closes her eyes.

She wakes with his arm slung over her waist, his breath tickling the nape of her neck. She’s filthy – the dirt and ash and blood mixed with fluid smeared all over her body and the sheets. A small sound escapes from her mouth as she struggles out from under his arm and finds her way to her feet. She notices the sun high in the sky and hears someone in the hall grumble “the King’s dead, s’far as I know. Hasn’t showed up all day.”

“Renly,” she whispers, clasping his shoulder and shaking. “Renly. King Renly. Wake up.”

He wakes with a groan, rubbing his sleep-addled eyes and wincing when some ash gets in his eye.

“Where’re the bleedin’ maids,” he mumbles, pushing the sheets off his body. “I’d like a bath right about now.”

“I’ll see if there are any around and get them to prepare a bath. Will your men have brought your clothes up?”

“Probably. Find a maid first and we’ll see about clothing.”

The water is rapidly cooling when they collapse into the tub. While they’re thankful for some way to wash the filth off their bodies, there is a bit of grumbling about the maids. They stay in the tub until the water has cooled unbearably.

It’s well past midday when they finally make it to the throne room. She’s pleased to see that Varys had made himself useful and made some semblance of order in the place. They hadn’t had a herald announce their arrival, so their presence causes quite a stir.

Even without a crown, Renly’s presence is met with deferential silence. The lords assembled bow as he passes, Arya following in his wake, a silent shadow.

Once again, he sits on the barbed throne.

When no one says anything, she shoots Varys a look.

“All stand in the presence of King Renly Baratheon,” she announces, in her most herald-like voice, “First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhyonar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

The nobles murmur “your grace” as she sits back down.

“I want a herald in here next time,” she mutters to Varys, “That was unpleasant.”

He giggles, which only makes her scowl more.

“Smile, Queen Arya,” Renly says under his breath. She immediately straightens up. Let it never be said that Arya Stark Baratheon did not do her duty.

The next order of business is to assume control.

“Send ravens to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Every lord must swear fealty to myself or face execution and banishment of their heirs to the Wall.”

Around the hall, nobles take the knee. Those who remain standing are quickly escorted by loyal soldiers to the cells. Once the hall is cleared of honourable rebels (for it was without a doubt that there were dissidents that bent the knee to save their necks) Renly calls for Varys to track down the other threats to the crown – most notably, the Lannisters and those loyal to them – Grandmaester Pycelle, Qyburn, the Lannister uncles and cousins – save Tyrion and Myrcella, the family would be massacred.

Lord Tywin would be rolling over in his grave.

Varys produces the shrouded bodies of Ser Jaime and Queen Cersei, killed when they ran and hid in the crypts. Beside them, the body of Kevan Lannister lies, crossbow bolt in his chest. (Pycelle is bundled elsewhere, but Varys assures her he is dead.)

Qyburn is brought out, still shrieking things about death and Lannisters.

“For conspiring with the Lannisters to undermine the true king, you are accused of high treason.”

“I did what I had to do!”

“You do not deny it?”

“Not at all!”

“On your head be it. Where is the headsman?”

“Ser Illyn is still confined in his cell as a Lannister man. Would you have him installed as your headsman?” Varys asks, shielding his intent with a sickly-sweet smile.

“No. I will need a new Justice.”

“I could,” she says, quietly to Renly. “I’d kill anyone and everyone who stands against you.”

“Can you wield a sword well enough to take his head?” He doesn’t dispute her willingness to kill for him

“Can’t I slit his throat?”

“They expect a nobler end.”

“I’d want my head attached to my body at least. If I have to use a sword it will take a few chops. Anyways, there aren’t any headmen here aside for Ser Illyn so I’ll do it today. You can find someone else after.”

She rises, drawing a dagger from its place at her belt.

“In the name of King Renly, first of his name, I, Queen Arya Stark Baratheon, do sentence you to death.” (_Gods, to be called Queen – she had wanted this for a long time. Power, in her name, and words, and blade. Justice for those who had wronged her family.)_

She steps behind Qyburn, yanking his head back by his thinning hair to expose his neck. With a spray of blood, the not-maester slumps over, lifeblood staining the floor and her hands, dead.

Stepping aside, she allows them to drag the body away.

“He who passes the sentence should swing the sword. You owe it to the man to look in his eyes and hear his last words,” she says, barely meeting Renly’s eyes as she makes her way back up the steps, still dripping blood.

The Kettleblacks’ blood joins Qyburn’s on the ground and on her clothes.

She smiles when she hears the Lannister uncles, Gerion and Tygett, were killed in the massacre by Bitterbridge. Her smile stretches wider when she hears the Sand Snakes had taken Casterly Rock and killed the Lannister cousins there. For Elia and her children, Mother and Robb, they paid the price in full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly in this chapter I wanted to portray Arya as more ruthless and draw parallels (and also huge differences) between her and Cersei. Arya does everything for her family (what’s left of it, and to avenge whoever’s gone) while Cersei’s motives are entirely self-centered (good job, Tywin. A+ parenting.) The similarities are there, though. It’s canon that Cersei, like Arya, wished she had been born a man. While Cersei didn’t have the chance to be who she wanted to (and thus resorted to spiting people), Arya had the time and circumstances (Essos) where she could grow to be her own person.
> 
> The beginning of the chapter shows the aftermath of the battle and also gives Arya a bit of a conscience. But when it comes to the people who have wronged her family, she’s a little closer to canon-Arya. (remember chapter 4? Yes, Myrcella and Tyrion are still alive. No, all the Lannister cousins and uncles are dead.)
> 
> Yes, be prepared for more throat-slitting.


	16. seat of poison, breath of life

Court ends on a sour note, especially given that Renly had started his reign with a great deal of bloodshed. While most of the casualties within the city were the consequence of the late Queen Cersei’s foolish ploy with the wildfyre, the blood of Lannister men that stained the hall reminded many a lord of the reign of Robert.

Robert had begun his reign with the slaughter of remaining Targaryens. Renly begins his with the death of the Lannisters.

She’s careful to make sure Renly takes note of this when they retire to their newly furnished rooms that evening.

“Robert was a terrible king.”

“What?”

“He was a great leader but a terrible king. He started off by killing children, proceeded to father bastards and put the realm in terrible debt to both the Iron Bank and the Lannisters, then refused to have or listen to good counsel.”

“You’re saying –“

“After massacring the Lannisters you’ve really got to make sure they know you’re not Robert. A bit of mercy here and there and a bit more seriousness when it comes to throne-sitting.” She pauses to think. “More like Stannis than Robert when it comes to matters of state but please do stay your charming self.”

“Stannis…” He rolls over to look at her. “I should have stopped Brienne from killing him. Despite everything he was still my brother. And he did have the better claim, though he would have been a terrible king.”

She sighs into his shoulder.

“We live with our regrets. I could have brought my father with me, you know, when I escaped King’s Landing. But I left him there. Taking him with us would have made escaping harder, true, but he might still be alive. But if I took him with us Joffrey might have taken Sansa’s head instead.” She lets out another sigh. “If Brienne hadn’t killed him, he might have sent another shadow after you. I might not have been there. And then you’d be dead and the realm would still be in pieces.”

There’s a silence that follows. Brooding, perhaps. Or just the silence that follows a statement that’s both reassuring and condemning at the same time. But for the first time in a few years, she feels she can breathe again.

“I’ll need a new Hand.”

“Not Mace Tyrell. An Estermont?” He looked affronted.

“After everything the Tyrells have given us, not naming him hand would be a grave insult.”

“And you would have Olenna speaking through Mace as your Hand.” She breathes out. “I suppose Mace will do, for the time being.”

“Why?”

“The Tyrells are ambitious. And they work better as a family than the Lannisters do. I-“ she breaks off. “I’m afraid the throne poisons all our minds.”

“Mace Tyrell laid siege to Storm’s End during the rebellion,” Renly says suddenly.

“They were following orders. So long as their liege has power, they will remain loyal, I think.”

“Who for the small council? I suppose you’re going to insist on keeping Varys.”

“Until he teaches me how to spin his web, I suppose so.”

He groans and pulls the sheets up.

“Let’s talk again on the morrow.”

In the morn she breaks her fast with her kingly husband.

“You’ve still got to decide who for your Kingsguard. And your Wardens. A Redwyne or a Stormlord for Master of Ships. Have you got a maester you can appoint?”

“And we’ve got to put someone Dornish on the council. And decide when your coronation is going to be. A tourney to select the Kingsguard?” He laughs at her disgusted expression.

That day, they appoint their small council. And their Wardens.

Tyrion Lannister is named Warden of the West, with Myrcella his heir. A woman and a dwarf is to be Lord Tywin’s legacy, and she smiles though she had planned it.

Mace Tyrell remains the Warden of the South, and people are relieved that there won’t be radical change outside the capital, at least for the time being.

The Arryn boy remains Warden of the East. She’d love to transfer the warden-ship to another House but there weren’t any other houses significant enough in the Vale.

Roose Bolton’s bastard is named Warden of the North. Arya had argued against it vehemently (_he killed my brothers_, she’d yelled at Renly) but there were no other Starks. Jon was bastard-born too, but Arya knew he would stay on the Wall, vows or no.

Against her wishes as well, Renly had announced a tourney “as soon as rebuilding is complete” to select his Kingsguard. She begrudgingly admits it isn’t a terrible idea – at the end of a war, people are eager to be cheered by some frivolity, and it would encourage lords or sons of lords who wanted to be a part of the Kingsguard to contribute to rebuilding.

She stands behind his seat on the small council later that day. The assembled lords had taken one look at her face and the two swords at her belt and they’d remained silent on the matter. They hadn’t forgotten who the King’s Justice was.

When the king goes hunting, several moons later, she sits at last on the Iron Throne.

The first thing she notices is that it’s cold.

The second thing she notices is the people staring up at her, some with hunger, others with distaste, and others with concealed curiosity. With the iron circlet heavy on her brow, Arya understands the poison of the throne at last. Who among the assembled is conspiring to take her crown, her throne? Robert died on a hunting trip. Would an opportunist take this chance to kill their king?

She shakes the paranoia and resumes holding court. When the petitioners have filed away, she lets herself breathe again. Alone, but for the little birds and mayhap Varys as well, Arya wonders why she wanted to keep the crown. She took the throne to avenge her parents and brothers by killing the Lannisters and stripping them of power. She took the crown as her duty and a chance to change the realm. (They sang songs of warrior-queen Nymeria. Would they sing songs of warrior-queen Arya? Sansa might.)

_Walder Frey_

_The Bolton Bastard_

_Littlefinger_

_Aegon Targaryen, the Pretender_

_Daenerys Targaryen_

_Valar morghulis_

There are fewer names now. She’d deal with Baelish once she found him. The Bolton bastard would die as soon as she had the chance to go north. On the way, mayhap Lord Frey would get his due. Or she could invite the Freys to King’s Landing.

She watches Varys out of the corner of her eye as she breathes in, letting her mouth twitch into a small smile.

She would cleanse the realm of them. For her family.

For her unborn child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...ad thus ends part one, the Stranger arc of the story. In this part, Arya (our favorite heroine) learns the value of death (our boon from the Father/Goddess, if you know the hero's journey) through various trials and tribulations. 
> 
> But now she's going to be a mother. Entirely contradictory to her assassin-face: the Mother is thought to give life, while the Stranger takes it - food for thought while I scramble to put Part 2 together and find an apt title.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around!


End file.
